Frowning, Lady Lyst opened her eyes, the wine dribbling down her chin, and stared with some curiosity at the small bunch of lilies in her right hand. She closed her eyes again and began to breathe more deeply.
Sir Ernest was about to read again when the twin giants, black and white, pushed open the asymmetrical doors of the room to allow Doctor Dee, in his gown of magical symbols, his scrolls, to hurry in, with Master Tolcharde, in his best, behind him, and the Thane of Hermiston, in clan plaids, coming last.
“Why,” said Phil Starling from the floor, putting an arrogant hand upon an unremarkable hip, “here’s Master Tolcharde all puffed and stuffed and ruffed and covered over in jewels.” There was some laughter, but not from Quire or the Queen. Doctor Dee frowned at Phil in distaste, Master Wallis pulled at the boy, who tugged away, grinning, moving from place to place, greeting his several friends, while Wallis opened mouth and eyes to implore him, then turned.
The Thane of Hermiston stood as if he had received the Gorgon’s glare. “Arioch! What’s all here?” His great beard bristled. “I’ve seen no worse in all my travels between the worlds.”
This made the Queen smile. She raised fingers. “Come to us, my dearest Thane. Have you news of your adventures? Have you more captives to bring us, as you brought us Captain Quire?”
The Thane blushed, then glared at Quire. “Captain, this woman has corrupted ye!”
The Queen was amused again. “On the contrary, sir!”
“What is this place?”
“It is a place of pleasure,” she said.
“Madam…” Doctor Dee’s face was drawn. He had a long, partially healing scar down the side of his face. He had tried to hide it with his white hair. “We brought the Thane to you because he wishes to tell you something.”
“Is it amusing, dear Thane? Remember, you attend the Autumn Feast.”
“Amusing? No, it is not, madam. I have seen the Margrave of Simla. Tatars line the Empire’s borders and ready themselves to attack us. They have news that war shall begin in the middle of this month. There is a traitor here, who informs them.”
“Who is the traitor, sir?” Easily.
“The Margrave does not know.”
The Queen looked down to Sir Orlando Hawes, who sat a little uncomfortably on his cushions. “You see a great deal of the Tatar ambassador, Sir Orlando. Has he said much to you?”
Sir Orlando shrugged. “Nothing definite, madam. I think the Tatars want war, as everyone else seems to want it. But you are unwilling to hear such talk, I know.”
“It is not very specific, sir.”
“Oubacha Khan has hinted that Tatary means to attack parts of India and Cathay as soon as war begins between the other nations. They think it will be easy work then, for, as he put it, the whole globe will be on fire.” Sir Orlando spoke with careless voice, as one who no longer has hope of convincing another of his opinion.
“But no certain news?”
“No, madam. When the Perrotts go against Arabia, it will doubtless be the sign.”
“Have some Perrotts brought to Court,” she said.
He looked hopefully at her. “Tomorrow, madam?”
“Next week,” she said.
“Aye, madam.”
Quire whispered: “Perhaps you should act a little more swiftly in this. A threat, say, to the Perrotts, that they stand to be executed as traitors.”
“There is no execution in Albion.”
“Just the threat.”
“Aye. Sir Orlando!” She called again. “Have the Perrotts informed that they commit acts of treachery against the Realm. Remind them of the old penalty.”
Sir Amadis Cornfield looked up from where he sulked. He rubbed at his forehead as if to clear his mind.
“Is that all ye’ll do with my news, madam?” asked the Thane.
“What else can we do, sir?”
“Investigate. The Realm slips closer to Chaos by the day!”
She took a large cup of wine down into her, as if to answer him. “I’ll have no unnecessary bloodshed, sir, as well you know.”
“Ye’ve kept the world from large wars for thirteen years,” he said. “Now ye set the match to the cannon which will signal the hugest war of all. I have seen such worldwide wars in my journeys. I have seen whole continents wasted-burned to nothing. Is this to be Albion’s fate?”
“Of course not, sir.”
The Thane scowled. “I’ll be away, to seek a saner place than this.” He looked to Quire. “She seduces ye, sage, with all her wiles and obfuscations.”
Quire was silent.
The Thane looked to Dee and Tolcharde, even to Quire, as if he expected them to accompany him, but they remained. He strode from the seraglio, an angry skirl of tartan. “The woman should be married! It should all be dismantled! Bah!”
Master Tolcharde was tactful, waiting for his friend to leave; then he stepped forward, awkward in his finery. “Madam, I have been promising you this spectacle for some months.” Diffidently. “It is ready at last. If the consort will play the music I have prepared for them, your dancers shall appear.”
“We are eager, Master Tolcharde.” She spoke gratefully at his bald and sweating head.
A wave to the musicians’ gallery and brisk, brilliant music began to play, in considerable contrast to that which had begun the evening. The Queen took another glass of wine. Quire leaned back in the couch, absently stroking her arm.
Master Tolcharde clapped his hands. From the far end of the long room figures began to appear. They were dancers clad in glittering costumes, so light-footed and elegant as to make Master Priest’s troupe seem crippled. They danced closer and closer, pirouetting, leaping, touching hands, and, as they neared the cleared arena, it seemed they bore frozen masks upon their faces-metallic masks, with eyes that were blank and mouths which showed no expression. There was Harlekin, in chequered costume, and several different clowns-a zany, a Pierrot- Columbina, Isabella-the Doctor and old Pantalon. There was Scaramouche, with swagger and sword, a red-faced musketeer. And they danced in a line before the Queen; then, with a single movement, they bowed and curtseyed as the music momentarily stopped. Every part of the costumes was of metal. The hands and feet were metal, glaring with colour. The faces were metal.
“Behold,” said Master Tolcharde with pride, “my Mechanical Harlekinade!”
“They are not human, Master Tolcharde?” The Queen gasped. “Not a scrap? They are so beautiful!”
“Metal through and through, madam. There have never been finer creatures made.”
(Doctor Dee enjoyed a look with Captain Quire.)
They began to dance again; acting out an entire play: of love thwarted, of love gained, of love attacked and love revenged. And though their hard metal faces showed no expression, their mechanical bodies movingly expressed the tale. Gloriana settled closer to Quire and Quire to Gloriana. The play continued. Harlekin thought himself deceived by Columbina, for Isabella was jealous and wanted Harlekin for herself, so made it appear that Columbina made love to Scaramouche. In turn, out of spite, Harlekin gave himself to Isabella, only to discover the truth too late, and, as he rushed to tell Columbina, he was killed by her vengeful knife. Upon learning the truth, she herself took poison. The last movement of the dance was a slow, funeral step, echoing the earlier dance of Master Priest’s ensemble.
Most of the audience was considerably moved, particularly Cornfield, Ransley and Wallis, all of whom felt themselves betrayed in love. Alys Finch wept a great deal, too, and was comforted by Sir Orlando.
Quire did not care for the mime, but since the Queen found it satisfying, he clapped enthusiastically. The mechanical creatures danced away.
“You must present them again, sir,” the Queen told Master Tolcharde. “Many times. Do they perform other tales?”
Master Tolcharde was apologetic. “Not yet, madam. Just that one. But they can be adjusted. For comedy as
